


The False King

by Chimerari



Category: Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (2011), Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy - John Le Carré
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-29
Updated: 2011-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-26 16:38:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chimerari/pseuds/Chimerari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim and Bill, from beginning to the end</p>
            </blockquote>





	The False King

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Deutsch available: [Der falsche König](https://archiveofourown.org/works/657303) by [eurydike](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eurydike/pseuds/eurydike)



> This is more of a combination of the film and the book, but it should be fine even if you haven't read the book

 

It was the winter of 1936, a cold and wet one even by Oxford standard. You almost begged off the routine gathering at the Popular, for every term the crowd became more pretentious while the debates remained mind-numbing as ever. And yet--the chance of watching people making complete fools of themselves still held its charm.

The moment you saw him, it was like someone yanked open a window in a room full of smoke.

He stood out like a sore thumb. And it wasn’t just the considerable frame cramped into a rickety chair either. At first you thought he was too shy to mingle, then you realized it was plain disinterest. He didn’t bother to hide it like the others, who were politely nodding along at appropriate intervals. He looked as if he’d wandered off the cricket field by mistake, wind-swept hair and all.

You sauntered over, one corner of your mouth quirked in greeting.

‘Yavas Lagloo,’ you said. Which meant meeting me in the woodshed or something similar. As far as opening line went, you thought it was fitting--the main speaker that night was Khlebnikov, some academician attached to the Soviet Embassy.

‘Oh, Hullo.’ Not a trace of unease in his tone.

‘What’s your dilemma?’

‘I haven’t got one,’ he said, shrugging.

‘Then what are you doing here? If you haven’t a dilemma how did you get in?’

His face broke into a crooked grin. Wordlessly he stood up, grabbed his jacket and led the way out. Confident that you would follow.

You did.

The two of you proceeded to drink everything you had stashed away in your room. Came morning, you staggered down to the parks, bleary eyed. While Jim (‘James, James Prideaux.’ You couldn’t remember at which point it became Jim, after the wine and before the vodka maybe) got into his running kit and did twenty laps straight. You felt exhausted just watching him. And no you would not be joining in, thank you very much.

Later you wrote a letter to Fanshawe, recommending Jim for recruitment. You surprised yourself by how much you remembered about that first meeting. It was an observation you could afford, one that wouldn’t rouse too much suspicion; Fanshawe had always been impressed by your attention to details.

 

 

There was something quite exotic about Jim; from his tanned complexion to that smooth English without a traceable accent. And indeed, his rather parentless look, born from years of travelling, picking up languages and habits like souvenirs. He couldn’t spew out Freud or Surrealism like the rest of your classmates. But he could tell you all about Paris (or Strasbourg, or Prague): cities that never existed except through the eyes of a mischievous schoolboy, lands where he alone held the key.  Not the grand statues or Comédie-Française you’ve read about, it was a world of bric-à-brac, of trap doors and winding alleyways.

You fascinated him also. He could listen to you talk for hours in the dingy dormitory; your ambitious, your dreams, the visions you’ve been brought up on, the Empire which surely would conquer and rule once again.

In the end he would smile an inscrutable smile. ‘You were either born too early or too late, Billy.’

Your drank to that: your own untimely birth, and the reality that grated against you like a grain of sand.

 

 

He called you his very own Mephistopheles, and you supposed it was nice, thrilling even.

‘Minus the horns, obviously.’

‘Oh, shut up, you know you’re just hiding them better.’

You laughed then, and took the prophecy at face value.

 

 

Back in those days you didn’t have the patience to paint. You sketched. Jim has sat for you more than once. Not his favourite past time, no, but Jim has always been indulgent when it came to you. There were still pieces of those around somewhere: a profile, a back hunched over a table, a brow creased in concentration---anonymous to an outsider, but you would have recognized the silhouette in a heartbeat. 

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to draw Jim when he was running around the field with his teammates, mercilessly crushing their opponents. But that would be like attempting to capture the wind.

Jim always did snort at all the heavy-handed metaphors you preferred.

 

 

People marvelled at your quick friendship. After all you were almost polar opposites of each other: Bill the painter, polemicist; Jim the athlete, observer.

They didn’t get to see the moments when the distinction blurred. When you listened instead of talked. When Jim stayed still long enough to be, as you casually put in one of the letters, ‘not a total idiot’. He never was, but for all his raw talents, he had the attention span of a toddler. Throughout college, Jim waltzed through clubs and societies like a damn tourist.

‘We can’t all be like you.’ He chuckled, golden in the afternoon sun. And for a moment your hand hovered in the air, the page you were turning over forgotten.

 

 

 

Jim didn't kiss the way you expected. Not that you'd expected anything. Not that you'd thought about it.

When he pulled away, he just looked…happy. Not smug, or shocked, or any of the rational responses to kissing their very male friend. The pad of his thumb rubbing soothingly along your cheek.

You wondered if he’d done this before. You wondered if someone else had taught him to kiss like that; lingering, searching.

You didn’t particularly want to know.

 

 

 

After the training started you wondered if you’d made a mistake. If Jim would be too impulsive, too genuine. He was a wonderful actor if he wanted to be, but most of the time he couldn’t even bother.

He took to it like a duck to water: how to spot a face among a sea of strangers, how to lose a tail, where to plunge the knife in. For some people all these were learnt, for Jim it was instinct. It was a discovery that both delighted and frightened you.

‘You could still back out you know, the deal isn’t iron clad.’

 ‘And let you have all the fun?’

He had this way of speaking gently, so gently it was almost a whisper when there were just the two of you, lying inches away from each other. So close that your eyes alone could not be trusted to take in all the details. You had to put a hand on the curve of his hip, the dip in his stomach.

"I’m serious," you said. ‘This isn’t just kid’s play.’

He shushed you and pressed his lips against your shoulder. But you’d have none of it; you’ve decided to be honest for once in your life.

‘You can never trust a soul, never tell the full truth to anyone. Is that what you want? To live a lie?’

He was silent for a while. ‘I can always trust you, can’t I?’

You had no reply to that.

 

 

It was never the same after Oxford. The war regularly sent you to opposite corners of the world. You’d spend months charming and wrestling your way into elite circles, pressing your ear to the walls. He darted in and out of countries like a shadow, best scalphunter the Circus has ever seen. The Haydon-Prideaux partnership as much a legend as it was a myth, for how often you actually crossed paths. It could be months before you managed to steal a glance over a crowd, afraid to linger for more than a second.

And you realized with a twinge of panic that you were losing him piece by piece: the curve of his ear, the bridge of his nose. It was all getting vague, washed out by the snotty sailor boys, the bartenders with open shirts, the dreamy art students that frequented your bed.

Sometimes he came to you at night, uninvited. You could be having a meal, or finishing a piece of painting, and he’d seemingly materialize from thin air. You’d shove aside whatever you were doing and go to him. Pour him a drink, wait for the defensive hunch of his shoulders to ease into something resembling content.

You didn’t talk much during these meetings; too little time and too much burden between you now. There were protocols for just opening your mouth these days.

He always kissed you before he left. It wasn’t a kiss between friends, nor was it between lovers. It was the barest brush of lips, breathed into the corner of your mouth. Hardly any pressure behind it.

And it burrowed into your skin like a worm, for days after.

 

 

You resolutely did not think about him when you said yes to Karla. There was no point. This stagnant pond was suffocating you. You wanted a new world, whether he’d follow you into it this time or not.

 

 

 

The night when Jim showed up in your living room, you immediately sensed something was different. Something about those fever bright eyes, the smell of smoke and fatigue clinging to his clothes.

 He was leaving tomorrow, a new mission, he said. You coaxed him into sitting, kept your tone light. ‘Where to?’

‘Budapest.’

You frowned inwardly. As far as you knew nothing big was going down there. And yet of all people, it had to be head of scalphunters to make the trip?

‘Shouldn’t take too long, I hope.’ 

Jim stood up then, paced around the space.

‘Billy, Control has this theory…’

You relaxed back into the couch. ‘That’s all he does these days, cooped up in his cave. He’s turning into a bloody philosopher.’

Jim carried on as if you hadn’t spoken. ‘Said there was a mole, right at the top of Circus.’

You gave a measured laugh, steady, steady now. ‘Oh, that has to be one of the best he’s come up with.’

 ‘He is Control.’ Jim trained his eyes on you; in this light they looked almost black. He didn’t elaborate.

 

 

You didn’t remember much about the aftermath. You were too busy screaming at people to do something, anything, get Jim back goddamn it. Give the Hungarians whatever they want.

 

 

Toby Esterhase came back from Sarratt, throwing a casual remark over his shoulder about how Jimmy boy was all skin and bones. At least he started walking again so that was good news.

Your mind was strangely clear---a room full of mirrors---and a crippled Jim wandered around in circles. His gaunt reflections were everywhere, everywhere, no matter how hard you tried to look away.

 

 

 

You didn’t seek him out after. You had a new purpose in life. There was always your adoring crowd, the brand-new London Station to look after.

Jim didn’t fit into any of that.

 

 

For all your pride and vanity, it was surprisingly easy to admit defeat, a relief, even.

Smiley came to visit once or twice, talked to you as if he was disappointed. Funnily enough, you’ve never wanted anything from him; his trust, his approval, his wife, least of all his pity.

 

 

They would ship you off to Moscow any day now. And a certain restlessness crept over you. It wasn’t because of the new life waiting for you; you held no illusions about a hero’s welcome. Traitor was an ugly word, in whatever language. The most you could hope for was a clean start, everything cut away.

Maybe you could finally become the second-rate artist you’ve always dreamt of, you mused.

 Although there would be no one to help you hang up the canvases this time. No one to snigger at your attempt at impressionism. Asking with a straight face what the hell you were trying to say with all those…lumps of colour.

No one at all.

 

 

You heard him drawing closer. His footsteps soundless on the grassy ground, but you’ve never had any problem of singling him out; from a lecture hall, across a busy street, or in the dead silence of the night.

His breathing was getting erratic, and the stench of alcohol was unmistakable.

Seemed like it would be a quick goodbye after all, then.

At that very moment, his face came back to you, an exact replica from his Oxford days: the high brows, the tiny crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he was happy or annoyed, the sunlight reflected off his hair.

You didn’t turn around to shatter that mirage.

Distantly you heard a sound, like a twig snapping.

 

 

 

 

 

_And then, my poor, sweet soul. We might have to do without eternity._

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr me folks](http://rosengris.tumblr.com/)


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